The Sound of Freedom
by aquavis
Summary: The battlefield was the last place Matthew and Arthur would find themselves entangled in. Yet, when they were together, it made the pain go away, even if just for a second.


**A/N: I do not own Hetalia.**

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It's the roar of the demons breaking loose from their gate, the sound falling into our ears endlessly that makes me shiver. Those beasts of fury falling to the ground, shaking the earth around us with their geysers of blood and soil as if it was meant for us; it scares me.

But we stayed in our shelter when the bombs landed, and we would not leave. Not now.

I try to push away the thought of war from my mind as you run your rough lips over mine, yet I can't help but think about it, even as you kiss me. I feel so daring, testing my might against fate and chance themselves.

At any moment, a shell could fall and kill us both.

It could kill us both, and we'd still be locked in our positions, caught in the embrace of death, barbed wire, and German artillery.

So we continue our fanciful rendezvous, not sparing a minute to the sound of the outside world.

Your bare hands pin my wrists, making sure my back is pressed smoothly to the wall while you slip your tongue into my mouth.

Above, men are darting across fields, rifles in their clammy hands, crossing land forged of blood and sadness. Their footsteps over explosions echo from our ceiling, dirt drifting down over our heads. A low rumble shakes the room. We don't look up.

We're trying to forget it; drowning our other senses in hushed voices and frantic motions. Anything to take away the pain burrowing deep into our skins.

You're sliding your lips down my cheek, leaving a sloppy trail of kisses down to the crook of my neck. I loll my head, closing my eyes.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, my voice escaping from my lips in moans. "A-Arthur…"

You let go of my arms and wander your hands to my chest, pulling at the gold buttons on my uniform. For every button undone, your lips meet the skin revealed, rough lips fluttering upon my chest.

You work skilfully, making sure that my jacket comes off quickly as I shiver at your touch. I fumble with the buttons of your wrinkled shirt (having taken off your jacket a long time ago), small plates of white slippery to my fingers.

My uniform falls to the ground, a puddle of clothing around my legs before you kiss me again, forcing your mouth onto mine, ripping my undershirt over my head during a gap of air.

You're growing impatient.

You tear away your own shirt, slipping it over your head and throwing it to a corner as you continue wandering your cold hands over my chest. Lingering for a moment over my scars, my eyes flutter open, feeling you slowly trail your fingers over the mark from the battle of Vimy Ridge; A long jagged scar of unhealed flesh gracing my side. I wince. It hasn't completely healed yet.

The ceiling rattles again, the single light bulb hanging flickering dimly against the dusty shadows. You jerk your hand away.

"Arthur…" I mutter, breaking my lips away from yours.

You stop, your green eyes staring me down. "You did very well." You whisper. "I don't think I tell you that enough."

I tilt my head looking back at you in sincerity. "You don't need to."

"I'm sorry." You run your finger over the very tip of the scar. "…I… I didn't mean for this to happen, you know. It's not your war."

Of course it isn't.

More dirt falls from the ceiling, speckling the battle plans on the table.

I think of Belgium and France, how every inch of their skin is bruised, bloody, and scarred endlessly of the battle lines strewn over their countries. How tired they must be of this infinite war against old acquaintances.

Yet I watch them carry on, trudging deep into the dark side of the war; Francois on the front line surveying his people with weary eyes and heavy heart, and Bella stitching up her own as she prays for an end over the crying. They do not wait for themselves to crumble.

And then there's you. Arthur. England.

I can see the scars of The Somme all over your chest, dark feverish purple splotches dabbed with crimson as though never healed.

This war is taking its toll on all of them.

And so I fight with them.

I fight for them.

My father.

My papa.

My friend.

I clear my throat, trying to process my words in order. "…It became my war when I fought for my family," I say, pausing to look back at you wistfully. "…And ended up fighting for freedom."

You sigh, trying to give a small smile. It comes out worn and sad, almost out of place on your serious face. "You're a good man, Matthew." You awkwardly pat me on the shoulder, lightly tapping with your calloused hands. "You are."

I can feel my face go red, burning with embarrassment. "…Ah… thanks."

You lean in, placing a chaste kiss on my forehead. "We should go back." You whisper, stepping back.

Already the sharp jabs immerge again, dotting all along the insides of my skin, reminding me of my people above.

I know you can feel it too, wincing as you pick up his shirt.

We had both forgotten about the pain of casualties on the surface.

As you slide on your jacket, you move up towards the door hatch. The sound of shells resonates from the door, falling endlessly into the ground over the snarl of artillery.

I shiver, the sound reaching my ears and down my spine.

That sound.

That sound I had tried to forget.

I could have sworn…

This time it was meant for me, calling me back to the battlefield.

I'll never escape it.

The sound of freedom.

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**Ugh, I'm not really sure if this makes sense or not; I'm not exactly the most awake person right now. OH WELL. Anyway...**

**Notes:**

**1) The Somme and Vimy Ridge were important battles in WWI. Unfortunately, The Somme was the bloodiest day ever recorded for the English Army, while Vimy Ridge was a huge sucess for Canada, who proved to take Vimy Ridge when all others had failed previously. The death toll wasn't as high as many of the other battles, but I had chose this because Matthew got wounded there or something. I don't know. It sounded better in my head. **

**2) I didn't include Alfred or any of this 'WHO?' buisness into my story because it's WWI. [Mostly] everyone knows Canada due to his strong military presence in the war [Canada's Hundred Days anyone?], and no one really wants to talk about how his twin brother has an isolationist stance going on. So yeah.**

**Yay, thanks for reading. :D.**


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